| Tuesday, June 25, 2002 |
 | The Archbishop of Central Africa is medium size. He was also officiating at the confirmation of a dear friend at St. Mary's, Stokey, in company with about a dozen other people, including a kid in a fairy princess costume so delightful one expected her parents to be crushed by a meteorite at any moment.
I tend not to spend much time in churches, leaving my stand-sit-kneel coordination tragically off, but fortunately I was absolutely surrounded by trainee priests and High Anglicans so I just about managed to scamper through. Which was good, since rituals are made concrete by their completion, and the assembled multitude were having enough trouble dealing with the excitable infants. The screaming bouncing off the high vaults made me feel like it was Christmas.
But hymns. Far too many hymns. One of which I knew, and the lovely, rousing and fiercely heterosexual boys' school tune I had learned at my choirmaster's knee was supplanted by some reedy piece of Vulcan hymnastics, which seemed to vary from note to note only in timbre, which was a shame because I was all ready to give it the full treatment, only to be wrong-footed at the last moment.
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